


The Blue Carbuncle

by JulianGreystoke



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: BBC, Blue Carbucle, Christmas, Doyle - Freeform, Friendship, Holiday, Modern, Mystery, Retelling, Sherlock - Freeform, Short Story, based on original story, friends - Freeform, reimagine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 06:48:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2572055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JulianGreystoke/pseuds/JulianGreystoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas time at Bakerstreet finds Sherlock bored, and John annoyed. When they get a visit from a friend of John's, who found an iphone dropped under suspicious circumstances, their Christmas might just get a little more interesting!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Blue Carbuncle

The Blue Carbuncle

I fumbled my packages from arm to arm, attempting to reach the door handle, to no avail. I thought of shouting for aid from my companion and flat-mate, Sherlock, but I wasn't ready to admit defeat just yet. As I was pondering what success I might have with my foot, the door flew open and there loomed the very man. Sherlock's eye darted to take me in, laden with Christmas packages and dusted with snow.

"New jumper," It wasn't a question. He turned and strode back into the flat.

I shifted my parcels and followed, finding myself with no uncluttered surfaces on which to place my purchases. I gave up looking, setting them atop a pile of newspapers on the table. "I did buy a few new jumpers, yes," I admitted, tilting one of my shopping bags open.

"No, you're wearing one," Sherlock said, not looking up. His attention was captivated by what appeared to be some sort of holiday special on our small television.

"What? How?" I looked down at myself. My upper half was completely hidden by my coat, which I had been about to unbutton, but hesitated, curious.

He shot me a briefest of looks along with the most fleeting of sympathetic smiles. "You neglected to remove the shop tag. It's sticking out of your collar."

I felt around to the back of my neck and sure enough, there was the price tag. "I was cold, it was warm, I put it on," I explained, tersely. I pulled a few boxes of Christmas lights from my shopping. Mrs Hudson's old strings were dead and they didn't make bulbs for them any more. Sherlock had correctly surmised that she'd had those strings of lights since before she had gotten married. She just gave him a cheeky smile and requested I pick up some new ones.

"What on earth are you watching?" I asked, squinting over my companion's shoulder.

"I don't know," he said, as though the title of the film was the least important thing in the world.

"Alright," I tried again, moving back to my shopping. "Why are you watching it?"

"Ah," I saw the flicker of a smile play on his pale lips before fading again, "Do you see what the holiday season reduces me to, John?"

"No,"

"No cases. No work. My brain is turning to mush, and as a result I sit here watching disgusting Christmas specials trying to deduce if these two actors are having an affair."

I bit the inside of my cheek, trying not to smile. He looked so perfectly pained that this was what he had been reduced to. Laughing out loud would no doubt send him into a full sulk and he'd make me more miserable than he usually did around the holidays. While his attention was diverted I ferried his gift (several classical music CDs of famous violin performances) into my coat pocket for later hiding in my own room. As far as I knew, Sherlock actually kept his snooping nose out of my space.

"They are," Sherlock announced definitively, and changed the channel.

I was about to suggest we go out for dinner, perhaps distracting him that way, when there was a knock on the door downstairs. Moments later Mrs Hudson led someone up, explaining as she did so that she was not, in fact, our housekeeper.

"Peterson!" I exclaimed.

Sherlock swung his head languidly around to see whom I had just greeted so enthusiastically.

"Hello, Watson, old fellow! How have you been?" asked the man standing I the doorway, looking pleased, but unsure. "I heard you'd gotten a flatmate," he peered in at Sherlock. He had no doubt read the news reports, or my blog, or both, and knew exactly who I was rooming with. By the avid look in my friend's eyes I could tell that Sherlock was the real reason he had stopped in for a visit.

"Sherlock, this is my friend, Peterson. We were in the army together," I explained.

"Not deployed at the same time," said Sherlock.

"No, you're correct there," Peterson smiled broadly. He'd obviously been hoping to be the target of my friend's deduction. When Sherlock said nothing more Peterson's face sank slightly.

I picked up the conversational slack. I was used to it. "So what brings you out on such a snowy night, and in your dress blues?" I looked my pal up and down, appreciating the smart uniform and keenly polished shoes.

"I was at a party with my regiment," he explained, "but that isn't what I came over to speak to you about," he hesitated, glancing around the messy room.

I sighed, swept some clutter off of a chair, and gestured that Peterson should sit.

He smiled and did so, hat tucked smartly under his arm and posture straight and military. "I actually wanted to speak to your friend, Mr. Holmes," Peterson explained.

I wanted to say even I deduced that, but kept my mouth shut. Sherlock was back to watching the TV. "He's listening," I assured Peterson, sitting in my own chair. It was the only surface without a pile of rubbish on it. Sherlock had an inexplicable, but appreciated, respect for my seating arrangement. "Go ahead." I urged my friend.

"Alright," Peterson looked doubtful, but seemed too eager to share his story to wait until he had Sherlock's full attention. "I was walking home from the party tonight. I'd had a few drinks, but I thought the night was too fine to waste on a cab. I don't live far away, as you know," he nodded to me, then glanced back to Sherlock, whose eyes were still locked on the screen as though he was the only person in the room. I gestured that Peterson should go on. "I heard some sort of noise, sounded like a scuffle, going on down an alleyway, so I went to check it out. I found some poor fellow about to be mugged by a group of young toughs. I shouted and the attackers spotted me and scattered to the four winds. I suppose I do look a bit intimidating in the uniform," he smiled, a hint of pride on his face. "Thing is, the man I was trying to help ran off too. I went after him, but he was clean away."

"Why are you here?"

"Sherlock!" I snapped under my breath.

My companion turned, bright eyes searching. "It's a valid question, John. Why are you here, Mr. Peterson?"

I was about to scold the detective again, but Peterson seemed unphased. He reached into his pocket and held something out towards Sherlock, who took it gingerly. I sat forward to see. "It's an iphone," I said.

Sherlock gave me a look which told me how little he appreciated my stating the obvious. He turned it on and the screen flickered to life. "Brand new," he observed.

"Seems that way," agreed Peterson. "It just seemed odd to me, for that fellow to have a brand new iphone."

"Why?" Sherlock questioned, his thumb running expertly down the screen as he flicked through menus.

"Well, I got a decent look at him, and he just didn't seem the sort to have an iphone like this. He was a bit raggedy, you know, like he was living rough. He also dropped this," Peterson held out a tattered scarf.

Sherlock took the item of clothing, handing the iphone to me. "Indeed," the detective looked the scarf over, smelled it, and pulled free a few fibers to study more closely. "He bought this scarf some years ago, though not for himself. It was an expensive scarf in its day, but he wears it often now. He is a smoker, whose wife left him and has taken his money, and his teenage son, with her. He hopes to keep in contact with the son. He is currently taking up residence in a homeless shelter."

Peterson and I stared at Sherlock, expectantly.

He stared back, then sighed. His speech was its usual, auctioneer-like rattling off of facts. "The scarf was purchased from a popular clothing catalog, to which Mrs Hudson subscribes. This very scarf appeared briefly this month's issue as a "classic" design, meaning it had been previously discontinued. The wear indicates to me that the gentleman purchased it before the discontinuation. You may also gather by this that he uses it often. Indicated by the crusted snot, here, which has only been added to. His smoking habit is evidenced by the scorch marks, and the smell"

"The wife?" Peterson's eyes were getting larger.

"It is a woman's scarf. Men do not generally wear these bright colors, nor are we overly fond of tassels on the end," he waggled the scarf end towards us. "Purchased for her, no doubt. He's clearly fallen on hard times, or he would get himself a man's scarf. Divorced, I surmise, as he could once afford to lavish his wife in gifts such as this, and now is reduced to wearing them himself. I was able to gather that he lives in a homeless shelter by the odor of the scarf itself. As well as the smoke, there is bleach and cheap floor cleaning products. He likely leaves the scarf on the floor at night. I find it doubtful that a gentleman who wears a tattered woman's scarf covered in snot would frequently bleach his floor."

"And the teenage son?" I asked, getting into it a bit myself. I couldn't help it. I have always been in awe of my friend's mind, no matter how annoying it makes him at times.

"For evidence of that we need look no farther than the phone. An expensive purchase. A gift, for someone he wants to impress. He wishes to stay in contact with his son."

"Why not daughter?"

Sherlock took the phone back and flipped it around so that we could observe the cover. Red, with some sort of character I didn't recognize. "Not many teenage girls are fond of the "Call of Duty" video games. Far more likely to be a son."

"Not bad," Peterson was beaming. He took back the phone and scarf. "That gives me a great idea of where to start looking for the man who lost these things! Thank you, Mr. Holmes. This is exactly what I was hoping for!"

Peterson and I chatted a while longer and Sherlock went back to channel flipping. Once my army pal had gone I went to my computer and got lost in my writing, thinking that the whole incident was over and done.

~~~~~

The next evening found Sherlock and I pursuing our disparate interests. To be honest, I wasn't actually writing. I was surfing the internet. I will admit I had watched more than a few videos involving cute animals, in between keeping my eye on news reports. I was always on the lookout for cases. Anything to keep Sherlock busy.

My friend was in the kitchen, working with his chemicals. He had refused to tell Mrs Hudson what he was using, which meant it was probably dangerous. I tried not to think about it. Sometimes I wished Sherlock would let me in on his experiments. He knew I was no slouch at chemistry. I suppose I couldn't match him, but I doubted I'd be as useless as he seemed to think.

Just as I was about to give in and click another video, there was a knock, not downstairs, but on our door. Then it opened. "Peterson?" I stood up.

It was indeed my friend, though this time dressed in his civilian attire. He looked agitated as he glanced around. "Is Sherlock home?" he asked.

On cue Sherlock's head popped around the corner, eyes bright and interested. He pulled off latex gloves and strode towards Peterson, "Something amiss?" He asked in a tone that made it clear how much he hoped that something was.

"It's the iphone, sir," Peterson said, drawing the phone from his pocket. He held it gingerly, as though it were fragile. Sherlock took it, eyes narrowing slightly. He looked like a cat who had cornered something, but he wasn't sure when to pounce.

"What is it?" I asked, feeling somehow left out.

Peterson explained. "I took the phone home last night, planning to spend today trying to locate the owner. Well, my son, he's seventeen, he asked if he could look at it, and not ten minutes later he called me over."

Sherlock nodded, eyes locked on the phone. His face was brightened by the light of the screen and he looked almost gleeful. Scary how he could go from depressed to grinning so quickly. "I see. Your son found something very interesting indeed. This particular phone should not be on the market."

"Would someone please fill me in?" I asked, annoyed.

"This phone has a valuable application which is not yet available. Working title: Blue Carbuncle" Sherlock paused eyes darting skyward, "unfortunate name. As I recall the famous Blue Carbuncle is also a jewel of unsurpassed beauty and history."

"A history?" asked Peterson. He drank in my friend's every word as though Sherlock were a prophet.

"I have heard the stone seldom changed hands without murder being committed."

"Lovely," I said, studying the phone. It looked so unassuming.

"It costs a great deal of money to create an application," said Sherlock, for Peterson's benefit. "Especially one so hotly anticipated and advertised."

Peterson's mouth was forming a perfect O of amazement. "My son told me he hadn't seen anything like it. I didn't think it was that important. How the hell did that man who lives in a homeless shelter get his hands on it?"

"That is what I intend to determine." Sherlock closed his longer fingers around the iphone and walked it to the other end of the room. He plopped it into a German beer mug which sat beside the skull on the mantelpiece.

Peterson looked crestfallen. I knew he had wanted to be the one to find the owner. What if there was a reward? He held out the scarf as well, which I took, and when it was evident that Sherlock was lost to us, Peterson left. I turned to my friend, watching as he stood beside the fireplace, eyes on the mug, so still you might think he was an oddly proportioned mannequin. I curled up the scarf and set it on the table, "well?"

No answer for a moment. His fingertips twitched, as though he had been jolted awake by a slight tickle of electricity. He turned to face me. "Get onto your laptop and post that we have found an iphone and a scarf. Do not mention the Blue Carbuncle application." he rapped out orders as well as any of my superior officers.

"Shouldn't we contact the police about such an important find?" I asked, pulling my computer chair away from my cluttered desk.

"I'm going to find who intended to leak it first," Sherlock said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "No sense going to the police before I have this solved."

I plopped my backside in my chair and began typing.

~~~~~

I was beginning to think we would never have a day without a visitor. I suppose this would be a usual thing for the holiday season, but I sensed the stress it brought to my friend. Social interaction was as difficult for him as baking a four tiered wedding cake would be for me. Impossible at first, and not worth the practice to improve.

Sherlock had spent his day getting the application off of the found iphone and onto a new one he had purchased that morning. I went out, came back, did some reading, watched some television. Sherlock sat, coiled like a cat, legs tucked so his knees touched his narrow chest. He hadn't put on shoes, but his feet were covered in garish holiday socks, which I knew were all he had clean. He refused to do his own laundry, so he let it build until Mrs. Hudson or I couldn't stand it any more and did it for him. My friend's eyebrows locked together as though he were working on a jigsaw puzzle I couldn't see. By that afternoon I was ready to ask him what he was thinking about, when there was another knock on our door.

To my surprise, Sherlock sprang up and cleared a table in a single, long legged stride, to answer it himself. Outside stood a meek looking man, balding and shabby, but bright eyed. He glanced around at the furnishings and seemed to relax somewhat when he saw the disarray of the room. I grimaced, but didn't let him see.

"Ah, you have come for your lost possessions?" Sherlock asked, eyes twinkling. A dangerous look I knew all too well. He was feeling clever.

"Indeed," said the man, smiling slightly. Though he was much shorter than my companion, he didn't seem as cowed as people usually were when faced with Sherlock's intensity. Still, I intervened for politeness sake. "Come in. We have your things." I moved to get the phone and scarf.

The man looked relieved as I handed him his belongings. "Now, I feel we should inform you," began Sherlock, an odd edge to his voice which I suspected he intended to be sympathy. The corners of my mouth twitched as I tried not to smile. "That when you dropped your phone in the snow, you may have damaged it."

"Oh dear," said the man, tilting the phone this way and that. The device obviously confused him.

"Not to worry, I had a look at it and managed to restore it to factory condition. Of course, any saved data...or applications, would have been lost."

"Ah, nothing to worry about then," said the man. "I got it new. Won it in a contest, actually. Shouldn't make one bit of difference if it had to be reset." His smile was genuine.

Sherlock looked disappointed, but not surprised. "Yes. Won it in a contest?" my friends eyes flashed up to meet the man's for a brief moment. I took note, as Sherlock's eyes tended to be anywhere but making contact with whomever he was speaking to.

"Indeed," the man tucked the phone into a pocket of his stained coat, patting it gently. Then he wound the scarf around his neck. "There's a pub just a block from the..." he hesitated.

"From the shelter," Sherlock supplied, in a tone that made it clear how little that detail mattered to his opinion of the man's tale.

"Yes," the man nodded. "Well, every year they have a raffle to win a few things, a TV, round of golf, movie tickets, and this beauty," he tapped his pocket where the iphone rested. "I could only afford two tickets this year. Didn't think I had a chance, but there you are. And now I have a gift for my son, Thomas."

The man looked so pleased that I think it was beginning to rankle my companion. "How nice," said Sherlock, already bored now that he had the information he wanted. He glanced at me with a look I knew all to well. Take over, John, it said. I sighed, and fell into my role. I made very small talk with the man as I ushered him towards the door. He thanked us both several times, though it was obvious that Sherlock was finished with the whole situation. He had his back to us and was staring into the fire. The man shot me a curious look, but I shook my head and gave him a wry smile before wishing him a happy Christmas and closing the door.

"Well, that felt pointless," I said, walking over to my chair, facing my friend. "he obviously knew nothing about the Blue Carbuncle app."

Sherlock's eyes darted up to meet my, for fractionally longer than he had met our guest's. "It does tell us a few things," he corrected me, though his tone wasn't as cold as it often was when admonishing me for my 'lack of observation'. "We know where he obtained the phone, and from there I am certain we can track where the pub got it. We need only follow this thread back to its beginning."

A few moments later found myself and Sherlock on the snowy street. I felt particularly short and dumpy in my grey coat, beside my tall, angular friend wearing his long duster and neatly tied scarf. I tried not to think about it and enjoy the city lights against the snow drifts, which were already beginning to go brown with grime.

Sherlock hailed a cab.

We made short work of the pub. A small, out of the way place that had the atmosphere of an establishment that encourages regulars. Still, they had the money for a Christmas time raffle, so they can't have been doing too poorly. The bartender pointed us towards a locally owned electronics shop a few blocks away, telling us that the phone and the TV in the raffle had come from there.

Sherlock insisted we walk. Well, he would walk, I had to practically jog to keep up with his long stride when he was on a mission. I felt annoyed as I almost slipped for the third time, but gritted my teeth. It was no good complaining to my friend. Sherlock showing sympathy was about as rare as the planets aligning, I thought darkly as my right foot slid and I reached for a lamp post. To my surprise, long fingers caught my arm. Wordlessly, Sherlock steadied me and then walked on. I admonished myself. Sometimes he was almost human.

The small, locally owned electronics shop shone bright yellow against the black fronts of other small shops, already closed for the day. I was glad to see it was still open. I wasn't eager to make the same trip again the next day. Sherlock practically flung open the door and we were greeted by a rock and roll version of 'Sleigh Ride'. I blinked in the light and winced at the song, but my companion was like a focused laser. He loomed over the cashier, apparently the only person in the shop. She, a girl, probably in her early twenties, popped her gum and looked apprehensively up at Sherlock. She set down her gaming magazine and her arm moved below the counter. I wondered if she was reaching for a panic button.

This was a situation that needed John Watson. Jumper-wearing, people-reassuring, non-threatening, me. I stepped up and got the girl's attention. "We're trying to find the origin of an iphone a friend of ours won at a local pub raffle," I explained.

The girl opened her mouth to speak, but Sherlock cut her off. "Yes, my companion and I have a wager. He claims that the iphone skin could not have been bought here in town, too rare, while I stipulate-"

I elbowed him. Not something I would normally do, but he had to be stopped. The girl was looking confused and alarmed again. "Do you know if your shop sends an iphone and a television to Andy's Pub for their Christmas raffle?"

Her shoulders relaxed, but only slightly. "Yeah," she said. Her voice was painfully cockney. "My boss says it's our version of giving to charity. He's best mates with the pub's owner." she smiled confidentially and popped her gum again.

I glanced up towards my friend, "well?"

Sherlock looked frustrated and unsure. Like I had just kicked his legs out from under him. I floundered for a moment as well. "Do you carry iphone skins with the Call of Duty logo on them?"

"Yeah," she chewed, open mouthed. I found myself watching her gum's journey past her teeth and back again. She kept shooting uneasy glances at my friend, who was still deflated.

Sherlock seemed to be processing. I had no doubt his mind was weaving the pieces together like a complicated web only he knew how to tread. "Can you tell me what company sells you those particular iphones?" he finally asked.

The girl's eyes moved skyward for a moment, then she stood up, walking into a back room, without another word. I was momentarily confused, but she returned with a piece of paper I realized was a company invoice. "Looks like we get those from the East End warehouse" she said. 'Pop' went her gum.

Sherlock nodded sharply. "Right," he turned and ushered me towards the door.

"Thanks," I called over my shoulder.

"Uh-huh," said the girl, sounding confused, but glad we were leaving.

As we exited someone else walked past us through the door. A small man, with a slightly haunted look. I figured he was a desperate last minute shopper. Sherlock seemed to gather something else, because he stopped us right outside. We watched through the glass door, around a poster of a young woman happily texting her friends. The man inside was pacing, gesturing. The girl look annoyed, maybe even a little alarmed. Seeing her expression made me want to go back in. She might be in trouble.

Sherlock beat me to it, though probably for reasons other than heroics. Back inside the shop I could hear the man yelling, as though he didn't care that he was no longer alone with the girl.

"Look, kid, your manager, Marni, she's my sister."

"Marni's the day manager," said the girl, who wasn't popping her gum any more. I let my hand tighten into a fist, just in case. "I don't talk to her."

"Well, trust me, she's my sister and she'd want you to tell me where the iphones are being sold to. I need to know everyone who bought that brand of iphone," he gestured to a floor model, "in the last two days."

"I can't..." The girl backed away.

"Sir," Sherlock's voice resonated around the little shop like a cello in an empty concert hall. It was as if the man had never been yelling. He stopped, staring at my tall, angular companion with wide, ferrety eyes. "I believe I can help you."

"You can?" The man asked urgently. His voice was tight and his eyes were red and puffy. My medical instinct managed a little sympathy, but not much. I glanced at the girl, who seemed grateful.

"Come with us," Sherlock guided the little man out the door, with me taking up the rear.

I shot a "Sorry," in the direction of the young clerk, who was still looking baffled. At least she would have something to tell her family about at Christmas.

"What is your name?" asked Sherlock as he hustled us through the lightly falling snow.

"John," said the man, fumbling over the second name, "R-Robinson."

Sherlock turned his head slowly, not unlike a snake eying up a rat that has been dropped into his cage. "Oh no, your real name, please."

The man smiled wanly. "Ryder. James Ryder. You can call me Jim," he said.

This name satisfied my friend and we continued on our way in silence.

We managed to get the small man back to our flat. Once inside Sherlock actually allowed 'Jim' to sit in his chair, while Sherlock took mine. I tried not to feel left out as I perched eagerly on the edge of our small sofa.

"I believe," Sherlock began, a little dramatically, "that you are seeking a particular iphone, which I have discovered was received by a local pub for their Christmas raffle. It has since come into my possession."

Jim leaned forward. There was so much emotion on his face I wondered how my friend would cope. Sherlock was not renowned for his empathy. "Yes! Oh, yes sir! Do you still have it?!"

Sherlock glanced at me, meaningfully. I sat further forward. "No," the detective said, "I gave it away."

The little man deflated. His clothes, a slightly wrinkled button down shirt and trousers, seemed much too large for him.

Sherlock let the moment lay across the man like a thick blanket before he finally pressed on. "However...I did manage to save something unusual which I found in the iphone's memory."

The man's eyes lit up again as though the excitement in them had never died. "You did! Oh sir, did you save it?"

Clearly he expected us not to know what we had found. He stood, face eager. Sherlock shut him down in what I might call a cruel manner, though perhaps what he deserved. "Sit down." snarled my friend.

The man sat, hands folded, now looking completely panicked. I had never seen anyone go through such a range of emotions as he had in the space of those few moments. His breathing grew rapid, and I had to stop myself from checking his pulse. Sherlock was fixing Jim with a glare that could only be called deadly. If I saw a tiger with that look, I would have assumed myself a goner. It seemed the man felt the same way, because he began weeping.

Sherlock seemed disgusted by this reaction. He shot me a very plaintive look. I stepped in. That was another of his "please help," looks, which I was coming to recognize. They were never more common than in social situations. "Now, Jim," I began. "You have got to pull yourself together. Why don't you tell us the whole story and then we'll see where we are?"

Jim sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve. Sherlock noticeably winced when the tearful eyes met his. That much emotion all in one place must have been intimidating to the taciturn detective. "Yes," Sherlock agreed. "Explain."

"Well," snuffled Jim. I handed him a handkerchief. He mopped up more snot and pressed on with a tone of a man on death row. "I work for Zeebox as a programmer. I helped program the Blue Carbuncle app. I realized what a huge thing we had. I suppose I also realized how much money I could make if I leaked it. I got my hands on the app, but I didn't feel safe just having it, so I decided to hide it somewhere else for a little while. Just until suspicion had passed me over. I may be a programmer working on the next big application, but after all, I'm just a cog in the wheel. My sister, Marni, is a co-owner and manager of the Radio Hand electronics shop. The one where you met me tonight. I...well..." He trailed off for a moment. Sherlock gave me a pleading look and then I gave Jim and encouraging one. He went on. "Marni told me that she was going to get me a new phone, whole-sale, for Christmas. I went to her shop at a time when I knew she'd be working alone, and asked if I might not have my phone early. She said I could have my pick. I selected a phone that I knew could run the app well and I even asked if she had any skins for it that weren't on display in the shop, so I recognize it easily. She gave me one that was new. Something to do with a video game. Before I even left the shop I determined to move the app from my personal phone to the new one. That was my mistake. Some customers came in. In a foolish panic I set down the new phone and pretended to browse while Marni helped them."

"Why?" I asked. "They wouldn't have known about the app."

"I know," moaned Jim, wringing his hands. "I was in a state. Not thinking clearly. They bought the same phone and the teenage kid must have liked the skin because he got the same and our phones got switched."

"Unlucky," I said, impressed. Even my luck wasn't that bad.

Jim heaved the most woeful of sighs. "So you see how I ended up here. Trying in vain to get the phone back."

"Did you leak the app before you lost it?" Sherlock asked, his voice level.

"No," Jim sniffled, his eyes large and frightened. "Please don't turn me in, Mr. Holmes! I...I'll go. I'll quit my job. If they find out and fire me I'll never work in this business again. Let me go out gracefully!"

Sherlock's eyes glinted darkly as he turned on our sniveling guest. "Sherlock?" I said, my voice seeming too loud in the moments of quiet that hung in the air. "You're not going to let him are you? He'll just go back and try something like this again."

Sherlock said nothing.

"I won't! I've learned my lesson. Please!" Begged Jim, more snot making itself visible on his upper lip.

"Get out," growled Sherlock, so low I wasn't sure I heard it. "I'll delete the app from my phone. This never happened. You will quit your job. You will never work on anything so important again."

"Yes! Oh yes," squeaked Jim, smiling weakly.

"Sherlock-"

My half-formed protest was met with a glare. The detective turned back to Jim. "Now get out of my flat."

Jim didn't say anything else, just sprang up, grabbed his coat and fled. I moved to the window and it took the unfortunate man seconds to be down on the street, darting away into the night. The snow was falling more heavily. The street lamps were wreathed in light, as the unseen moon would have been. Distantly I heard a holiday tune being played too loud in a pub. With the new snow covering everything Baker Street looked new. Revived from grey-brown sludge to glistening white. I turned back to Sherlock, who was holding the phone he had saved the app onto. "Shouldn't we have turned him in,"

Sherlock looked up at me, actually meeting my gaze until I looked away. This was a rare thing indeed. "I think, John, that I consider it a Christmas gift." his thumb tapped the screen of the phone and I knew he was deleting the app.

"And you do that sort of thing for people? Since when?" I folded my arms, turning back to the window to enjoy the view.

"There's a first time for everything," he said. I heard the squeak of leather which I knew was him folding himself into his chair.

I turned and watched his face, pensive now in the dim light. "Happy Christmas, Sherlock Holmes."

He shot me a quick smile. "Happy Christmas, John."


End file.
